And Other Stories
by Alphard
Summary: Seven drabbles that I felt were too short to upload separately. Written for the 31days lj fic community, and mostly on Vincent, Sophia, and Alex. All general fic, more or less.
1. Like Hamlet

_Note:_

_31days is a livejournal fic challenge where each day in August has a theme, and the fic written for a particular theme is to be uploaded on that day. I was doing this with a friend, but I got waylaid by art school and she got waylaid by packing for university overseas, so in the end we didn't get through the month._

_With the exception of three fics that eventually became _An Anatoly Gentleman in Dusith_, everything stands completely alone. But it didn't quite make sense to me to upload things spanning about two-thirds of a page as seven separate fics, because I've always thought that a proper length for fic is around three pages, so._

_All titles are stipulated themes, and are not my own._

_Contents:_

_Ch. 1 - 3rd August: Like Hamlet  
Vincent and Sophia, a year after Alex's death._

_Ch. 2 - 8th August: You shimmer like words I barely hear  
The closest to Alex/Sophia it'll ever get - which is not at all._

_Ch. 3 - 10th August: Way of difference  
Vincent, on having to capture the _Silvana

_Ch. 4 - 15th August: Air and stars  
Vincent, on change and the possible end of the world._

_Ch. 5 - 16th August: Kingdom of the mad  
Alex and Ressius. On chess, Delphine, and the Guild._

_Ch. 6 - 24th August: I am waylaid by Beauty  
Moran Shetland, on the women in his life._

_Ch. 7 - 25th August: The heart beats on and will not stop  
Alex, after the Grand Stream._

* * *

**Like Hamlet**  
Finished 26 July 2005 

_Polonius: Will you walk out of the air, my lord? _

Hamlet: Into my grave?

taken from Hamlet_, 2.2_

* * *

"There's a legend they tell these days," Vincent says, placidly, "about the grey ship, the _Silvana._ A ghost ship that haunts the skies, looking for its dead captain. The greatest battleship that ever was." 

Sophia sighs, remembering the other tale Klaus told her once, a rather dramatic one, of the _Silvana_ and a trail of desiccated bodies, the blood sucked out of them, while Lavie shuffled in embarrassment behind him, growing steadily redder in the face until she stomped off and Klaus excused himself, a little bemusedly, to see what was wrong.

It's amazing how Alex attracts only a particular type of story. The man in silver and black, who would kill without a word. The man with dead eyes. The captain of the grey ship Silvana. No one seems to remember that he was also the captain of the ship that saved both countries from a profitless war and gave them a second chance at life.

The two of them glance at the grave – white marble, sombre and dignified, almost innocuous.

"It's a rather charming story, actually," Vincent says. "I didn't have the heart to correct them. In fact, I wouldn't mind a ghost ship of my own."

It's impossible to imagine the _Urbanus,_ with its gold trim and its decidedly earthly, even worldly, captain, as a ghost ship, Sophia thinks, and by Vincent's wistful smile he knows it too. "I shouldn't think Alex would have minded, either. It's his type of joke."

It's been a year since his death. _Somebody_ has to be in charge of remembering the real Alex; the rest of the world seems to find ghost-ship stories more interesting.

Alex. For whom the ground became intolerable, a hopelessly complex web of emotions and ties that had ceased to be applicable to him. He took to the sky instead – clear, blessedly empty, the only thing to tie him down a tenuous kite-string of allegiance to Anatoly that he broke at whim. Alex, who made himself a tool for revenge, calmly eliminating whatever and whoever stood in his way with the terrible steady gaze of a man who knew what he was doing, who knew the consequences and would pay for all of it when the time came.

Sophia likes to think that he found peace. It's too much to imagine that he would be punished any more than he already had been.

"I think he admired you, you know," Vincent says, suddenly.

Sophia blinks at him, unsure of the direction in which this is going.

"For being able to get yourself out of this mess," Vincent continues.

She remembers, suddenly, the years she spent on the _Silvana_, hope like a controlled flame burning away until she had nothing left with which to feed it. "Did I?"

Vincent sighs. "Oh, Sophia."

There is nothing to be said to that, and they sit, staring out to sea, remembering a young man who was changed into something else, the fabled captain of a ghost ship. Sophia shivers, a little, in the evening wind. Vincent, instinctively chivalrous, absently stands, undoes his cloak and draws it around her shoulders, over her own.

It will be night soon; she should be leaving. Sophia smiles, vaguely. This is life, being subject to the elements. On the whole, it's not so bad. "We are the fortunate ones, aren't we?"

They look at the grave again. Alex, who was unable to extricate himself from his own mess. Vincent ponders. "I don't know. I'd still like to have that ghost ship." But he returns the smile, to show that he understood.

"You'd have to paint it some other colour first," Sophia replies. The next gust of wind flaps both cloaks against her hands.

"I'd best return you to your ministers before they decide I've abducted you," Vincent says. He turns, bows deeply. "Good night, sweet prince."

Alex was a soldier, not a prince. All the same, it seems appropriate.


	2. You shimmer like words I barely hear

**You Shimmer Like Words I Barely Hear (working title White Noise)**  
Finished 26 July 2005

It took some time for Alex to get used to having Sophia in the periphery of his vision. She looks altogether too much like Yuris; he'd find himself in a faint haze of false comfort before he remembered that things were different now, and then he would blink and turn, focus, and have to fight to keep his expression stable.

For her part Sophia appeared one morning with her long hair elaborately braided and clipped in place at the nape of her neck and took to wearing glasses, and Alex spent a few days inspecting the crew with the distinct feeling that something was missing.

He didn't say anything about it. Neither did Sophia. No one really knew whether she was actually myopic, and when one day the _Silvana_ hit a storm, knocking Sophia's glasses off her nose and shattering the lenses, she continued as if nothing had happened until the crisis was over and no one ever dared to ask. The glasses reappeared, repaired, a few days later.

After that it became progressively obvious that Sophia was horribly, utterly in love with Alex Rowe. She knows it and he knows she knows; the entire ship's crew knows and Alex knows that, too. No one says anything, but it's like white noise: silence that isn't quite silent.

(Once Alex was walking in the corridor and overheard the mechanics talking to Sophia, goodnaturedly and determinedly not naming names and agendas but utterly transparent all the same: the captain was a good man and deserved to be a happier person, he sort of had eyes like a goldfish but that wasn't his fault, he'd had a hard life, didn't she think he would be a lot better if someone was to take care of him?

"I think the captain can take care of himself," Sophia replied with a mild, amiable smile, and Alex blinked and silently made his escape before anyone noticed he was there.)

There is no _space_ in Alex's life for Sophia, which is something else they both know. He's simply not capable of loving her. If no one brings the matter up, if all those words hovering just below the edge of speaking are never actually said, never made real, then it will be all right. He will not have to sack Sophia for personal reasons.

Sophia never drives him to this decision. He supposes she realises that Alex plays the strict but fair captain whenever possible – which is how she's managed to creep up the ranks to vice-captain, at his right hand and almost permanently in his sight now, and which is why his crew loves him so much – but also that if the only alternative is to resign as captain of the _Silvana_, he will do it. If Alex loses the _Silvana_ he will not be able to get at Delphine.

And Delphine's death is the only thing Alex is living for now.

It's disconcerting to imagine Sophia thinking these things, though, contemplating the sheer eye-watering effort that goes into maintaining this grand illusion, so Alex doesn't and Sophia, in her smiling, unperturbed manner, continues to carry out her duties to perfection.

There is a momentum to stories like his, Alex knows. It all adds up, the number of words left unsaid by a steadily increasing number of people. Some night, drunk with pain and perhaps with more than pain, he is meant to stumble into Sophia's quarters, muttering Yuris' name – which is why he does not drink, and locks his quarters at night in the hope that searching for the key will give him enough time to come to his senses.

This cannot go on. But it must, it will, and it does.

And when Sophia finally resigns, unexpectedly, what strikes Alex first and hardest – more than guilt at being unable to give her anything in return for all her years of devotion except unnecessary cruelty – is profound relief, the prospect of white noise turning to true silence and suddenly no one needing to pretend that nothing is happening because nothing _is_ happening.

It's an emptiness that he can get used to. He has other things on his mind. 


	3. Way of difference

**Way of Difference**  
Finished 28 July 2005

It's easy to underestimate Vincent Arthai. Fatally easy; people have died from it before. Vincent the showman, the incurable gentleman, the captain of an ostentatious ship with an ostentatious name. It's not even exactly for show: Vincent really does like his coffee and his coffee set, the way he looks in his dress uniform, and the colour cream.

Vincent also likes Alex Rowe. Nobody really knows why; Vincent is about as unlike Alex as it's possible to be – but he does. But because he's not just a showman and an incurable gentleman but also one of the best airship captains Anatoly has to offer, he's managed to get himself the unenviable task of trying to capture the _Silvana_.

It's impossible, of course. If Alex doesn't want his ship to be captured, then it simply won't be captured. But you don't tell kings that sort of thing, and now innocent men will die trying to accomplish the impossible.

It was foolish to give the job of finding the girl to Alex in the first place. So much power; did the king really believe that he would cheerfully hand it over? Alex, for whom allegiance was only a means to an end, and who hardly even bothered to pretend otherwise?

But they tell legends of the _Silvana_ and of Alex Rowe, and it is useful to have legends in your service. Old Anatoly had let it go to his head.

Vincent shuts his eyes and sighs. _Alex, Alex, Alex. Why do you have to make everyone's lives difficult? _

He already knows the reason. It's not a good one, but it's Alex's reason.

_You don't tell Alex that sort of thing, either. He'd just stare._

Alex's stare is something not even Vincent can face. It's the kind of stare that says that Vincent can ply him with coffee and banter and games of chess and Alex will even respond, but at the end of it all Alex is still an animated corpse, a walking dead man, nothing burning behind his eyes except revenge.

And now he'll have to pit the _Urbanus_ against the _Silvana_, friend against friend – at least, insofar as Alex has friends – white ship against grey. He knows Alex won't be showing any mercy, this close to Delphine, nor expecting any.

Vincent's seen this coming for a long, long time. He's hoped that it wouldn't be him to have to try to take Alex down. He's hoped that, when the time came, Alex would be able to get out of it safely.

He still does. But that will have to wait, until he's done trying his damnedest to carry out orders. 


	4. Air and stars

**Air and Stars**  
Finished 13 August 2005

People who write love poetry seem to think that the stars are permanent. The fact is that nothing could be further from the truth. Nothing stays in place even in a single night; the stars appear to spin around the north pole or the south; the planets travel with each month. Even the position of a north star can change, in the space of several millennia.

And now, if Vincent's navigators are correct, there's something seriously wrong with the night sky. The stars are _shifting_, in a way they never have before. Astronomy isn't Vincent's specialty, but it doesn't take an astrophysicist to know that that sort of thing isn't supposed to happen.

It's almost as disturbing as the changes in weather in Dusith. Likewise, he doesn't have to be a genius to realise that if it's possible to even notice changes in Anatoly across the huge buffer of the Grand Stream, then something very strange is happening. There's a kind of worried murmur among those in the know, barely audible, of the coming end of the world.

Vincent sighs. Thinking about the end of the world is bad enough without the sinking feeling that his best friend is probably involved in it. And it's a terrible thing to remember that at one point in time all Alex wanted was love and marriage, maybe a couple of kids, and as much sky as his Vanship let him touch. Simple things, that didn't require dragging two continents and a race nobody's sure is quite human into the bargain, or infuriating Alex's barber so much by his infrequent visits that the man gave up and cut his hair in a style that could actually go three months without a trim and still look mostly presentable.

It suits Alex, in a way it would never have in the past.

Vincent is too young for his and other people's lives to be flashing before his eyes, but there's too much time on his hands now that he's lost the _Urbanus_. It's practically cruel and unusual punishment. A captain without his ship is… nothing.

(Vincent's crew told him that they were sorry to see him go but on the bright side, if the world really was going to be ending soon, then it probably didn't matter all that much one way or another.)

It's all changing. Which is a damned pity, Vincent thinks, because he sort of liked the world the way it was, except the part about the war.

And now the person to watch is Sophia.

It's probably too much to hope that she comes through completely unscathed, but it'd still be something for her not to end up like Alex. He'll do anything to prevent that; Vincent would rather die than have to think about both of them, on top of the end of the world.

Vincent glares up at the sky for a moment longer between his curtains, and then gives up for the day.

And, overhead, the night sky wheels through its unfamiliar orbit. 


	5. Kingdom of the mad

_I think it's very obvious that I don't play chess. Sorry._

* * *

**Kingdom of the Mad  
**Finished 01 August 2005

Alex spent the first six months losing to Ressius at chess. The Guild defector played ruthlessly for a man who seemed so genial; any piece that wasn't part of his strategy was considered expendable, could be sacrificed for distraction. He'd set them up as if they were important, and then work through whatever holes there were in Alex's defense while he was busy trying to eliminate useless pieces.

Alex couldn't understand how Ressius knew so well how to bait him. He made Ressius explain after they were done, and most of the time it would turn out that Ressius never actually had to change his strategy.

"You are too predictable," Ressius would tell him, kindly, "and too honest."

Trying to beat Ressius became an obsession. Alex spent three hours every night staring at the tiled walls of his quarters planning chess games, and then lost spectacularly the next evening. But as he tried to be less predictable, less honest, the margin grew closer and closer.

When he finally won, half a year after Ressius first boarded the _Silvana,_ it gave him no pleasure.

"Ressius."

"Yes?"

Alex stared at the chessboard, frowning. "Tell me. Is it impossible to win without becoming like your enemy?"

He didn't want to be Delphine. The only way he could justify his own actions was by telling himself that no matter what he did, at least he was better than Delphine. Somebody had to get rid of her or die trying; he was doing the world a favour. Wasn't he?

"Delphine does not play chess," Ressius said. "Sane people play chess."

Alex glanced up. Ressius continued to talk, quietly. "Delphine doesn't need to play chess because she has power over the board and the players. She doesn't need to win because she has already won. That's the way the Guild thinks. For anybody else, this would be fatal. For the Guild, it is accurate."

Alex opened his mouth, closed it again. He couldn't even begin to imagine exactly how much power that meant – for a mad queen and a crumbling society to still be completely unassailable. "Then they're all mad. It can't be true."

"It is, unfortunately. Madness is eating away at the Guild, yes. But it will still take centuries to fall, if it falls at all. It doesn't matter how devious your strategy is. It doesn't matter _what _your strategy is. She has too much power."

Alex fought for calm. Power was the key; he needed more power than the Guild had.

It was impossible.

"How can I fight her?" He couldn't keep the desperation out of his voice. There had to be something. He couldn't get his mind round the idea that there was no weakness at all he could exploit. There _had _to be something.

Ressius smiled at him, bleakly. "I'm sorry, Alex. I don't know." He sighed, began to clear the chessboard. "Remember that I ran away."


	6. I am waylaid by Beauty

**I Am Waylaid by Beauty**  
Finished 27 July 2005

After a while, it became obvious to Moran Shetland that he was only staying on board the _Silvana_ for the girls.

There weren't many girls in the infantry. In fact, there weren't any. The only female he got to see on a reasonably regular basis was the ship's cook, who was a fearsome lady with a moustache and very difficult to fall in love with. Of course, girls weren't supposed to be the point of the infantry; he was here for patriotism and universal brotherhood – he wasn't sure how this second one was consistent with the fact that he was here to _shoot_ Dusith marksmen, although this was apparently solved if he did it in a gentlemanly way – but while patriotism was a nice enough ideal in the day it didn't exactly keep him warm at night, and he didn't really want to consider the other, slightly more dubious, aspects of universal brotherhood.

So when Lavie swooped into his life on a messenger Vanship, plucky and young and refreshingly female, Moran lost his heart. Just like that.

And what with one thing and another, suddenly he was on the _Silvana_ and there were girls all over the place. He didn't even mind it when they took away his uniform and gave him a mop. Or when it became obvious that Lavie wasn't remotely interested in him. There was always Tatiana, who couldn't seem to make up her mind about whether she wanted to be an ice maiden or a volcano.

But it wasn't much of a life, mopping ship decks and looking at girls all the time. Especially if they didn't seem to pay him much attention. When he thought about it seriously it seemed crazy of him to want to give this up in order to go back to being shot at, but –

– but it was what he was trained for. Anybody could mop decks, and the faintly bemused look Tatiana had given him when he asked her to leave the ship with him was enough to destroy any man's self-confidence.

And then Sophia was suddenly Queen Sophia, and Moran Shetland could be a rifleman again.

It took serious consideration. Despite his enthusiasm for his old occupation he knew that battles only ever looked interesting and glorious in retrospect. Did he really want to be shot at again – and by _Guild_ technology this time? It frightened the hell out of him.

But if they'd given him a set of medals for staying alive, then he must have been some good at it, surely?

And there was that girl, the one from Dusith, and she actually seemed to like talking to him. She didn't have Lavie's faint exasperation, Tatiana's polite puzzlement.

When he put it that way, it didn't seem like that hard a choice after all. 


	7. The heart beats on and will not stop

_Personally, I don't like this fic. Alex gives me a lot of trouble, generally to do with why he seems to be unnecessarily dark and dramatic despite being, technically, a walking dead man._

Unfortunately I also thought it was cowardly behaviour to keep on avoiding him, so I ended up writing this out of sheer pride. Sorry.

* * *

**The Heart Beats On And Will Not Stop**  
Finished 27 August 2005

After Alex was discharged and had done everything duty compelled him to do, he quietly returned to the pilots' hostel and tried to die.

It should have been easy. He _felt_ as though he were already dead; it ought to have been a matter of switching off, stopping – without any need for drama. His body didn't seem to be getting the hint, though: it continued getting hungry and thirsty, and Alex glanced at the bathroom mirror one morning and realised that his scratches were actually healing. As if there was supposed to be life after this.

But he couldn't have become a Vanship pilot if he'd had any inclination towards suicide, and so Alex continued going through the motions of life, patiently waiting for things to catch up.

Except he could no longer sleep.

Alex had come back to Anatoly a complete wreck. Now that he was off sedatives he was dreaming of the Grand Stream every time he fell asleep; virtually every pilot on his floor had come hammering on his door the first two nights to make sure he wasn't being murdered.

The screaming had stopped after that. Evidently no one had wondered why.

It'd been about four days so far. One way or another, Alex thought, distantly, pacing slowly from one end of his small room to the other, he was going to end up dead. At the moment it seemed like it would happen sooner rather than later. Walking was like wading through treacle.

Somebody knocked on his door in the middle of his pacing the next evening. Alex turned quickly, managed two steps, and then collapsed.

.

Vincent was staring down at him when he woke up. "I heard about what happened."

Alex blinked. "Go away."

Vincent sighed. "I'd rather not have your death on my hands. _What_ are you trying to do?"

"You're supposed to be on a ship," Alex said, sharply.

"I applied for leave."

"There's no way it could have been approved."

"All right, I resigned. They'll hire me again eventually. Don't change the subject."

"I can't sleep," Alex said. He tried to sit up.

Vincent pushed him back down gently, with one hand. "Alex, you survived the Grand Stream. You can't die of exhaustion now."

Alex shut his eyes. None of this made any sense.

"Yuris would have a fit," Vincent said, quietly.

"But I didn't survive the Grand Stream," Alex whispered, drifting into sleep.

"Go to sleep."

Three hours later he woke up remembering the thing on the Guild ship, the one pretending to be a person.

He was also on the floor, tangled in sheets, and Vincent was kneeling next to him with the beginnings of a spectacular bruise on one cheek. "Are you all right?" Vincent ventured.

"It was smiling," Alex said, softly.

"What?"

"It was _smiling_," Alex repeated, staring wildly. "On the ship. Watching."

Vincent was watching him with increasing concern. "Alex. _Breathe_."

His vision was purpling at the edges. "That was a crown. It – "

Vincent slapped him, hard. "Shut up and breathe."

And then Alex was gasping and crying, in huge tearing sobs that shook his entire frame. Vincent picked up the blankets, wrapped them around him and pulled him close, muttering awkwardly that it was all right, everything would be all right eventually. After a while he gave up, and settled for rubbing Alex's shoulder in a vague, soothing way.

Alex cried for an hour and then fell asleep.

.

Vincent opened his eyes in the morning to find Alex awake, dressed and sitting at his desk writing something. "Um."

"Vince?"

"What?"

"I'm quitting. Help me get onto a ship. As soon as possible."

"What? Why?"

Alex stared at him. "Because I want to kill the Guild Queen."

Vincent opened his mouth and then closed it. "It'll take a while," he eventually said, weakly.

"As soon as possible," Alex repeated. "I'm going to give notice."

He was halfway through the door when Vincent demanded, "Alex, tell me what's going on."

"Later." Alex continued walking. If he stopped before tendering his resignation he might change his mind. Might go back to waiting to die.

He breathed in, slowly and deliberately. As long as that thing was still alive, still ruling, he couldn't allow himself to stop.

It was the most painful decision he'd ever had to make. But he'd already finished with the self-pity last night.

Alex glanced down at the letter in his hand, smoothed out the wrinkles where he'd been clutching it too hard, and picked up the pace. 


End file.
